"Actually," said Kip. "I never minded anchovies. There are things I like more, but..." His Dad had liked anchovies, he was about to say. At least once a week, something like this happened, where he was tripped up by his father's ghost in the middle of casual conversation. Some days were better than others. Sometimes, he was able to just pick up and move on. Other times, an off-handed comment would send him to bed for the rest of the day. And still other times, like now, he would just stop in mid-sentence, brush it off, and move on as though he'd never spoken.
"I like Hawaiian, let's go with that," he told Mitts before walking robotically to the phone and placing the order. When he hung up, he said, "I'm getting a beer, do you want one?" He sounded uptight, his voice a little strained, but he kept it together, forcing the images of his father's lifeless, bleeding body from his mind and trying to stay in the here and now as fully as possible.